“To the Last”

January ’17, Story A.

Here is the first story of the year! Let me know what you think below? ~Panda

We were brothers to the last. That’s what we always said. Brothers to the last cookie, brothers to the last slice of chocolate cake- then we were enemies, of course. We had grown up together- since day one for me, day eight-hundred nine for him. Not that anyone was counting. We celebrated together- each day was a new adventure. Me and him. Him and me. If one of us was in trouble, we weren’t punished until the other was found to tell his part in the scheming. Dinner time was hard on mom- always had been, since she ate less than everyone around her – but now it was worse, two teenage boys, each of us prepared to battle over every last scrap. It wasn’t that there wasn’t more food, or that we couldn’t go get a snack- but who wants re-re-heated ham if you could have fresh fried chicken? We got our first job together. When he went on his first date, I helped him with his tie. When I went through my first break-up, he was the one who stood through my anger. We were fire and ice, I was rash, he was wise. Mom always told him to look after me, and he always did. Dad made sure I wouldn’t let him be a stick in the mud, and he wasn’t. He preferred books while I preferred the gym. He split logs while I hit home runs. He ate the chocolate pie, and I ate the meringue on top. Whatever we did, though, we supported each other… but now that’s gone.

Gone? Oh yes. Gone forever. Never returning. No matter how many times people said: “You’ll see him again.” Or “It’s all part of the plan.” I knew I wouldn’t. No, I would never see my brother again. If I did see him, it would not be as brother to brother, not eye to eye, but as child to hero. He had promised Mom I would come home- and he made sure of it each time we went out. We had enlisted together, and now he was missing. Missing in Action, they said. We had gone through training together. Time after time we had written letters together, sealing them in the same envelope, neither of us reading the others, but each knowing the other had written of the same experiences, yet focusing on the other. I would tell mom of his bravery- how he stood a head shorter than the captain, yet was respected. He would tell mom of my pranks, and I would get a scolding in the next letter from home. Each week, I read the letters he had sent home, hoping against hope that somehow I’d be able to see him again, that somehow I’d hear his “Hullo?” from down at the creek. When I did, I imagined throwing away my crutches, running to him, wrestling him to the ground… How I would do that with one and a half legs, I wasn’t sure, but I would do anything for him- just like he would do for me. We were lucky to not have been split up more than we had been from each other. We had gone into that day together- soldiers, friends…Brothers. He had been on the plane to my left when we went down. Neither of us expected to make it out alive, but I knew one thing- no one who hurt my brother was going to live. When we were grounded, we got out of our planes, fighting side by side, each step taking us closer to the enemy’s guns. Each man that died beside us another reason to push on. His face was set- this wasn’t his dream, it was mine. He wanted a family- his girl was still waiting for him back home. I wanted adventure, but boy, this was not what I had expected. The smells of blood and gunpowder clogged my nostrils, the screams of bullets and dying men that fell on my ears were bone-shaking. Then he was hit, he saw the bullet coming. As he sagged, I pulled him up, standing half in front of him.

“You’ve gotta get me home. You promised Mom.” It was all I could say in the moment, and he just nodded, his big blue eyes growing fierce as he reloaded. Turning back to the lines, I realized I wasn’t fighting for adventure or glory anymore. I was fighting for my home- for my mother, father, for my brother- to get him home. The screaming fell on deaf ears, the scents on a nose that refused to smell. I was getting my brother home- he was going to be safe, he was going to have a family. The first time I was hit, I kept going. The second shot took me in the shoulder. My brother supported me.

“Brothers to the last…bullet?” His smile was weary, his face gray, his eyes determined. He was tough, my brother.

“Brothers to the last.” It was all I could say before the next bullet hit my leg again. It had shattered something. I went down, and he knelt over me, his gun blasting. He stayed until the medics came, then refused treatment, returning to the front lines.

They never found his body- I knew he was alive. They had shipped me back home to Mom, where they called me a “hero.” No, I wasn’t the hero- I hadn’t brought him back. I had failed. He had succeeded. He had completed his task. He will forever be my hero. My brother- to the last slice of chocolate cake.